These were passed along years after he died. No one at the estate sale wanted them -- dusty brass snowflakes, $5, some so small they had to be organized inside gelatin pills. Richard was a watchmaker, a clock collector, an amateur gunsmith, and I remember that his drawings had nice lines. His workshop was in the basement, where the walls were paneled and lined with clocks and heavy cabinets. This is where his collections were stored. Sitting at the kitchen table, you could hear the hourly chorus of chimes and cuckoos echoing down below. He died childless, which is how I came to the gears, or how they came to me, and why I was asked to carry his casket. I was surprised how light it was. Upon receipt, after the deaths of his sister and wife, I wished that I had maybe also inherited one of the single-fire pen guns, a cuckoo clock, or maybe a drawing.
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